The Vanishing Room

By S. M. Fenton

A haunted inn. A scarecrow festival. A cursed room. When Richard Beckett quits his job to travel the world, he soon learns that he is a magnet for trouble. His attraction to the unearthly beauty of a young married woman leads him to a strange room in a dilapidated inn. Can the headlines about mysterious disappearances be explained rationally, or will he become the latest victim of The Vanishing Room?

"In a world of body-horrors, slashers, and splatter movies Fenton returns to the romance of vintage psychological horror."

Paralysed and in pitch darkness, I was assaulted by the dust that rose from the thick fabric I now rested on. It burned my airways with each shallow breath; and the tiny motes stuck to my dry eyes, causing a fierce itch that I was helpless to remedy. The rush of panic lasted several minutes and though I suffered it in both stillness and silence, my mind screamed and thrashed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9780244721510

Book preview

déposée.

Chapter I - Inheritance

I had died, been buried, and was now reborn. That’s how I felt in 2015 when a fortune was bestowed upon me by an estranged aunt, who died while living in New Zealand. Though I felt a small pang of remorse for the old lady who had nobody more intimate than a nephew who lived twelve-thousand miles away, this third-hand regret was tempered by that same physical and emotional distance. Everything in life had assumed new meaning; or lost it altogether. Those things most dear to the caterpillar are quickly discarded when she sheds the chrysalis and discovers her wings. I had, I supposed, eclosed from my former life.

The larval stage that had been my existence until that point was, I supposed, fairly typical of any youth in his twenties. With both average grades and average looks, I had only barely survived school. At college I found myself greatly in need of the social skills that other boys of my age seemed to have mastered. By the end of college, though, I had discovered the benefits of running matte wax through my previously floppy brown hair to create a swept-back loose pompadour. On the fashion front, I constructed a wardrobe of skinny jeans, expensive trainers, and leather jackets. The carefully polished roughness of my hair and clothes distracted from my milky pale complexion and boyish rosy cheeks. The toning-down of those features that plagued my confidence allowed me to discover that, from the eyes up, I had an above-average smouldering look; I just had to maintain a grimly immobile lower face to ensure my positive qualities could shine through.

As a result of these discoveries, I left The University of Hull having developed a caricature of assuredness accompanied by a defensive vanity that a psychologist would have described as a symptom of having an external confidence that is inconsistent with the underlying insecure self-image. This broadly paints the picture of my personality as I entered the adult workplace, grinding out a monotonous daily routine during the week and hitting bars and clubs in search of meaning, and affection, at the weekends.

Given my circumstances, my situation seemed unreal when I first received the letter summoning me to Broadstone and Marsden Solicitors. It remained incredible after three meetings with Bill Marsden, the executor of my aunt’s estate. Showing uncharacteristic sense, I had decided not to trust my luck until the money was deposited safely into my bank account. When it finally arrived, I found myself to be just as incredulous as before, half-expecting some mistake to be discovered and a claim raised against me for its return.

While I awaited the payment, I had continued to work my job as a Junior Administrator at an insurance company. This was a frustrating time as I was bombarded with advice and opinions by everyone I encountered throughout my day. The solicitor, my friends, colleagues – even people I barely knew – had all plied me with superfluous opinions on how the money should be spent. Several times I had glazed over as each postulation was added to an phantasmal dataset whose only purpose was to power a fanciful, yet boring, pie-chart in my mind. Living mortgage-free was a gigantic blue wedge, eclipsing almost every other option with its enormity. Other, far thinner, slices represented suggestions such as using up tax-free investment allowances (green), buying an expensive car (red), and starting my own business (sickly orange). The illusory chart would float in mid-air, some circular sectors growing, others shrinking, and all jostling against each other in real-time as my unwanted advisors droned on. It’s glassy surface finally shattered when it was unable to accommodate the one-thousandth suggestion, supplied to me at the printing station by a skinny teenager wearing an oversized suit that must have been gifted by a much older family member. Walking away mid-conversation, the freshly printed timesheet was still warm when it left my hand and floated down into the depths of the recycling bin as I marched out of the office. I left the building without even handing in my notice and I never returned.

At the age of twenty-three, none of the suggested outlets for my fortune interested me, not least because all the suggestions came from people who were really telling me what they dreamed of doing if they had the money; but they didn’t have a fortune at their disposal, so they were limited to the mere imagination of riches. If, like me, they had the real thing, they too might conceive of other ways to spend it. What was it George Best had said? I spent ninety-percent of my money on women and drink. The rest I wasted!. Who would have thought Bestie would have been a W.C. Fields fan?

Against everyone’s better judgement, I had decided to travel around the planet. To start, I intended to scour Europe to cram in all the cities that I had, so far, only experienced through television. Like Richard Burton, I would continue eastward to sample street kitchens and discover non-Western cultures. The dream would feature me alternating between tall buildings, open spaces, and sandy beaches. There was no rush; I was suddenly, unworthily, and filthily rich – plus I had no lavish lifestyle to drain the money with monotonous maintenance spending. Yes! I could traverse languorously from place to place for as long as I liked.

My Aunt’s solicitor, Bill Marsden, was the smartest and most vocal opponent to my decisions. He was largely unconcerned with what I considered the big choices. Walking out on my job left him unphased. Travelling the world touched him not. Fancifully, I imagined him being unconcerned even if I told him I planned to build a monorail on some remote island. Leaving my money in a standard deposit account, however, turned him scarlet with frustration.

A busy man with slightly-too-long hair that exploded from the borderlands of a receding hairline, Marsden looked like William Shakespeare – but in a pinstripe suit. We sat, as we did many times before, at his large faux-antique desk, resplendent with its green leather writing pad and viridescent lamp. Absently, I stared at his serious brown eyes and wondered why he cared so much about where I put the money. He gave me business cards for financial advisors and was annoyed by the tone of my noncommittal responses as I casually tucked each one into some pocket, knowing full well it would be discarded later.

My final conversation with Marsden took place on my mobile phone as I stood on the platform of a train station in Brussels. Some terminals are an exhibition of architectural inventiveness. The Bruxelles Midi station, though, was no such example. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was built according to a pattern that was commonly used, with only minor variation, in the construction of thousands of stations I had previously visited, or sped through, across England; though it was cleaner. Pacing a large circle widdershins around my luggage, I spoke to Marsden with disinterest. This was his last-gasp attempt to convince me to better manage my inheritance. He droned blandly, his voice buzzing through the tiny speaker. He may have been right, but I just didn’t care.

Bill, I know that you’re very concerned about this, I attempted in a sympathetic tone. Maybe we can talk about it when I get back?

I’m just concerned that you’ve put all your eggs in one basket. He had used the egg-basket metaphor countless times before. Just think of the interest rates!

If I received no interest at all, the money would still last for my whole lifetime.

The conversation continued for several minutes. Marsden lectured me on the rising cost of living and supplied all the facts and figures that underpinned his argument. Dutifully, I repeated each one back to him as a demonstration that I was listening, though I wasn’t. My attention was drawn increasingly to my surroundings and I was relieved when the platform’s speakers buzzed into life to announce my train in a deafening distorted monotone. This gave me a legitimate excuse to disconnect the call, so I made a hurried apology and ended Marsden’s monologue with a rapid tap. Wrestling a feeling of guilt, I looked down at my phone for a few seconds, my thumb hovering over the option to block his number. There was a real possibility he would disrupt every stage of my trip with further packets of advice. What a tragedy it would be to travel the world and see nothing, as the phone stole each landmark and every vista. Full of resolve, I hit the button and made a solemn oath to avoid using the phone whenever possible. The world would not be stolen by that insipid glowing screen.

Stuffing the phone into one of the zip-up pockets on my rucksack, I stacked the bag on the top of my wheeled suitcase and stared up and down the track to see if I could spot the approaching train. The platform had filled quickly, and passengers were still gushing forth from the escalators that brought them up to the station viaduct from the ground-level concourse below. As I stared at this steadily flowing stream of humanity, my eye was drawn to a large and brightly coloured pigeon. It was stood quite still on the platform, untroubled by the turmoil churning around it; and it seemed to be staring straight at me. I stood hypnotised by the iridescent bird for several seconds, before it leapt into the air and blazed a streak of blue and green as it sped through a narrow crack of light, which had squeezed past the murky windows above us. Turning to follow its path, my gaze was arrested by the sight of a woman standing a little to the right of the escalator. The dark hair that fell past her shoulders shone like coal and melted into a black brocade jacket. In the gloom of the station, her pale face was like a beacon. I found myself staring at her lips, which stood out dark red, like a rose petal discarded on sun-bleached concrete. She was, I guessed, about my age, perhaps a year or two younger. She turned towards me and I froze. Had she just mouthed a word? My heart picked up its pace and a felt a rush of nervous anticipation. Squinting, I willed my eyes to peel back the layers of grey gloom that enveloped the platform, to see her illuminated brightly, but this was not a power I possessed. The floor began to vibrate as the train approached the platform, though I imagined it was my very being reacting to the discovery of its soulmate.

With a suddenness that made me jump, a figure passing by the woman snatched at her handbag and pulled it fiercely from her grasp. She stumbled backwards a short distance into the handrail that surrounded the emergence of the escalator. For a terrible second I thought that she might be in danger of falling, but her hand found the metal railing and she steadied herself. In just a few strides the figure had got clean away, travelling roughly half of the distance between the woman and me.

The next few seconds passed by as if in slow motion. The assailant’s hoodie flew back as he sprinted away from the woman. He was a small boy, a pre-teen judging by his puppy-dog face. He was moving quickly, the bag tucked under his arm like a rugby ball and his body leaning forward as he sprinted away from the scene of the crime. Instead of making the sharp turn to escape down the escalator, he had opted for straight-line speed, which meant he was heading directly towards me as he made for the stairs. I had just moments to work out what to do, but when it dawned on me that I was, perhaps, the only person standing in his path who had seen the incident, time appeared to snap back to full speed. In an instant, he was directly in front of me and my brain had yet to choose a course of action. Before I could think, my arm seemed to have risen of its own accord. Perhaps I intended to hold out my arms and shout for him to stop, but instead of this passive warning, I found myself upturned as we collided. My wrist connected with his chin, my elbow jarring painfully as his momentum was transferred into my arm. We both sprawled across the floor.

Before I could come to my senses, the boy had regained his feet and set off at a rapid hobble. With a stunned slowness I sat up, feeling the throbbing contact of the platform blocks on every angled joint. As I looked down at my dishevelled clothing, I noticed the bag, which lay discarded at my feet. It was a large purse, embossed with a repeating tessellated pattern. As I picked it up off the floor, I was surprised at the softness of the leather; it felt terribly expensive. The clasp was fashioned after a shield and was uniquely decorated with a crimson stork, standing on one leg and clutching a precious jewel in its raised claw. An inscription had been made beneath the bird, but I was distracted as a shadow fell across me. I looked up to see the woman smiling demurely down at me.

My breath caught in my throat at her beauty. The hazy light that filtered through the grimy glass of the station roof illuminated her like a halo. Stupidly, I held out the bag like an offering to an ancient goddess and she took it from me gently. She said a few words in French and I stared back, not able to engage my rudimentary language skills to decipher what she had said. Seeing my confused expression, she thanked me once again in a beautiful broken English, her voice so soft and sweet that it made me feel even weaker. I would have stood to talk with her, but the momentary bliss was violently disturbed by a thin man with strangely cropped thick black hair. His angular nose and spiteful withered face made him appear like a raven next to this enchantress and I shrank from the sight of him. In a hoarse whisper he barked in French at the woman, instructing her to board the train. He reinforced his spoken instruction by pointing with a crooked and spindly finger. Turning to me he forced a strange kind of smile that didn’t extend to his eyes, his skin stretching in an unfamiliar way across his face. He thanked me tersely and reached down with one of his claw-like hands to grasp mine in a clammy shake. He then spun on his heel and marched off after her, leaving me sat on the floor in shock.

After a few deep breaths – and realising that I would soon be left behind if I didn’t board – I gathered up my suitcase and rucksack and quickly made my way onto the train. The doors closed with an oily clunk and soon the train was speeding along the tracks towards Paris. It was with some relief that I settled into the large crimson moquette-covered seat that I had reserved. Much as I had done with hotel rooms, I had paid a premium to get the best. My reservation occupied a significant space between the window and the aisle. On the other side of the carriage, four seats surrounded a table, but mine was arranged in a facing pair with a sliver of a table in between. As the train lurched out of the station, I realised I would be sat alone. When it came to travel, paying for first-class was both necessary and worthwhile; after being imprisoned within a metal tube for an hour, I was prone to outbreaks of claustrophobic anxiety. Whether it was an airplane or a train, the feeling was the same. I wouldn’t be able to peregrinate the world unless I could master my nervous disposition and conquer long-distance journeys.

When it came to hotels, I had found the reverse to be true. The thought of softening the miles with gigantic bathtubs and chilled Champagne had seemed like a smart idea when I was booking my first couple of stops. In Brussels, though, I had spent the entire time worrying that I might spill something on the plush, thick, expensive snowdrift of white carpet – and I was already craving somewhat plainer food. It was too late to change my next stop, but after Paris I promised myself simpler accommodation where I wouldn’t feel like a criminal for sneaking some crisps into my room. Trading-in the luxury and bubbles, I would purchase the peace of mind and pure enjoyment that could only be obtained from the kind of hotel room that already had stains on the carpet. My scheme made me feel better already. I just needed to survive one more opulent suite at my next stop. This was some universal truth that I had uncovered; peace of mind could be obtained with expensive travel and cheap accommodation.

The journey did not go well. For a while, I tortured myself with replays of the event in Brussels. Within these theatrical re-enactments I imagined a more graceful interception of the bag-snatching boy and invented scenarios in which my basic grasp of French had been robust enough to understand and respond to the woman on the platform. A thousand alternate-realities were constructed for that three-minute episode by my relentless mind. This self-inflicted torment ceased only when the universe decided to inflict one of its own. Just as we passed to the north of Mons, we slid to a premature stop. An announcement crackled over the speaker system and I grasped the basic theme of it; we were stuck due to a signalling fault.

After an hour of stillness that was punctuated with apologetic updates, I began to feel the restless twinge of panic caused by my confinement. It was mid-October, but the day had been unseasonably warm. The air conditioning was now losing the battle against the persistent sunshine as it beat down to scorch the metal carriage and bake the perspiring occupants within. If I concentrated hard and kept deathly still, I could feel an occasional wheeze of cool air; the dying breath of an expiring machine. My skin itched where it touched the fabric of the train seat and my hands were restless and uncomfortable.

The other passengers were variously composed; some in great agitation, checking their watches frequently with exaggerated arm movements. Others were calmly slumped in their seats, lost in their mobile phones. This was the first serious test of my newly minted resolution of avoiding screen time. The device still sat in the pocket of my rucksack, but I imagined it glowing red hot as it attempted to burn free, flee its captivity, and return triumphantly to its home in my palm.

To ease my condition, I decided to abandon my seat for a while. There was a café-bar somewhere on the train and I could kill a few minutes by searching for it and perhaps numb